He makes a lot of changes

Three weeks later:

Owen woke to the slow, wet heat of lips sliding down his cock. Warm tongue flat against the underside of his hard cock, cheeks hollowed, a soft suction that pulled him out of sleep inch by inch. He groaned low in his throat, hips shifting up instinctively before his eyes even opened.

He lifted the sheets, knowing what to expect below them.

The hijabi woman from that first day, the towel stand, was between his legs. Naked except for the black silk hijab wrapped neatly around her head this time. Her hair had started growing back, short dark stubble now, underneath the hijab. She’d been letting it grow because he’d told her to. Messed up as Garrett had been, they shared that taste: the contrast of covered hair and bare body, modesty twisted into submission.

She looked up at him without breaking rhythm, eyes meeting his over the curve of his shaft. Tried to smile around the thick length filling her mouth, lips stretched, corners crinkling, a muffled hum of contentment vibrating down to his balls.

This was her routine now. Part of her duty. Every morning she crawled into bed before he stirred, took him in her mouth and sucked until he woke. Gentle, reverent, no rush. Just warm, wet service to start the day.

Owen let her work another minute, throat relaxing, tongue swirling then tapped her shoulder.

“Enough.”

She pulled off with a soft pop, tongue flicking the head once more before she sat back on her heels. Reverently slid off the bed, knelt beside it, bowed her head low enough that the hijab’s edge brushed the floor.

“Good morning, Master Owen,” she said quietly. “Your wife is waiting for you downstairs.”

He nodded once. “Go make the bed. Clean up anything from last night.”

“Yes, Master.”

She rose smoothly, gathered the scattered pillows he’d kicked off in the night and started straightening them without another word.

Owen swung his legs over the side, grabbed the black robe hanging on the door hook, shrugged it on. Left her to her work and walked barefoot down the hallway, down the wide staircase.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and fresh blueberries. When he stepped in, Paige was there, his wife now, both by the role he’d taped onto her and by the quiet courthouse ceremony last week. Red hair done up in a loose, elegant twist, soft curls escaping around her face. White dress with tiny black polka dots, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring just enough to show off her legs. She stood at the island, pointing at a mixing bowl while Maid #8 and another woman in lace waited for instructions.

“More sugar in the filling,” she was saying. “Owen likes it sweet. And don’t skimp on the butter in the crust...”

Her face lit up the second she saw him. A bright, genuine smile, though he knew now it was programmed, reinforced every time he looked at her. She skipped across the tiles, bare feet silent and jumped into his arms. Legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. Kissed him deep, tasting faintly of the coffee she’d already sipped.

“Good morning, husband,” she murmured against his lips. “I hope you enjoyed me last night.”

He smiled back, hands settling on her ass through the dress, soft, familiar, still the same curves he’d loved before everything went to hell. “I did. You’re getting really good at the cuddling part.”

She laughed softly, nuzzled his neck. “I practice. Ofcourse. For you.”

“Not with other men I hope…” he laughed, knowing that was impossible now.

Maid #8 approached then, neon-green Mohawk still sharp, piercings glinting, same submissive posture he’d always seen her in. “Breakfast will be served shortly, Master Owen, Mistress Paige. Please take your seats.”